


Five times they needed shelter (and one time they didn't but had it all the same)

by Kujaku



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 22:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kujaku/pseuds/Kujaku
Summary: Written for the Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2016 on Dreamwidth.Enjoy!





	Five times they needed shelter (and one time they didn't but had it all the same)

Jordan – 500 BC

Night fell, and the angel didn't move from where he'd been standing. It wasn't necessary, just like breathing wasn't necessary, or even being in human form. There truly was no need for it, but he'd discovered that pillars of fire and wheels within wheels covered in eyes weren't the most efficient way of communicating with the people he'd been asked to watch over. For some reason they tended to be a bit jumpy when that happened, and usually ended up going in the opposite direction while screaming. And he desperately tried to forget the one time he'd simply forgotten about all of that. Facing the whole truth of a multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent didn't really sit very well with the human psyche. Or anything else.  
So he'd done away with the more arcane forms and was currently residing on a rooftop in Jordan, in a comfortable male-shaped body that didn't attract any attention. The wind was warm and the stars were bright; in all, it was a beautiful summer evening, smelling of cloves and dates and grilled sheep. If he made an effort he might have been hungry, but that was too much of a bother, so he lay back and merely enjoyed the smells...

He snapped into wakefulness in one simple second. There was a _ripple_ in the surrounding air, like if someone had thrown a stone into a placid lake, and the whole universe seemed to just stop for a fleeting second. He came down from the rooftop and started to walk through the throng of people, feeling the disturbance ever closer.  
And then he stopped, eyes searching. There was something about the man in front of him, but he couldn't remember, he couldn't put a name on that face.  
Until the other man turned his head, gazed right at him and smiled, letting the tip of his forked tongue flash through his lips.  
\- Missssssed me?

Aziraphale could only stare – dumbly – at the man. Then his brain finally caught up with the rest of him and he caught him by the arm and dragged him into a tiny alleyway.  
\- What are you doing here?  
\- Seeing what's been up since the last time. It's certainly a great deal better than some of those other places I've been, although the sand is up for debate. The places it gets to...  
\- Stop talking and give me the truth. What are you doing here?  
\- So you want me to talk, or not? Make your mind up, angel.  
\- Follow me.  
His mind was still reeling. Of all the beings he would never have thought to see again after all that business with Eden, Crawly was definitely the last name on a pretty long list. And yet, here he was, bold as brass, walking through Rabbat Ammon as if he owned it. And the people around him were smiling and waving to him, as if he'd lived here all his life. Aziraphale felt  
_(jealous)_  
irritated for some unknown reason, and pushed the demon onto the rooftop where he'd been at peace just a few minutes before.  
\- Now speak. What are you doing here. And I want the truth, Crawly.  
\- Crowley.  
\- ...What?  
\- Crowley. It sounds better. More me.  
\- If you say so. Now answer my question. I have been given the task of looking over this planet and these people, and I will _not_ allow you to mess it up.

Crowley paused, a perfectly cruel and sharp answer exactly shaped on the tip of his tongue, but he relented. Aziraphale was still a Principality, no matter what had happened, and he was a minor demon. And a minor demon who perhaps had done a few things to annoy said Principality. Push the angel too far, and he might see Hell just a little quicker than he wanted. He had to tread carefully.  
\- I promise, I'm not here to do anything but a quick temptation. Nothing serious. It's over and I go straight back. Promise.  
\- And that is supposed to make me feel right about letting you stay here another moment? Why shouldn't I just banish you back to whence you came?  
\- Look... Aziraphale, just... Can you just let me stay? A day or two, just to finish what I came here to do? This place is beautiful, but sleeping outside in the sand isn't really what I prefer.  
He hoped that he'd been gentle enough, that he'd been humble enough and that he'd said "promise" and please" often enough. It never worked on angels, they were all too full of themselves and – in his opinion – too happy to blast demons into their component parts to try and listen. But this was Aziraphale. He knew Aziraphale. And he had a connection with him (hopefully). So maybe it would work...

Puppy eyes were impossible with those golden, snakey irises, but something had worked, because Aziraphale indicated a blanket and a reed mat in silence, before going to stand on the edge of the roof again.  
He didn't turn around when Crowley left in the morning. 

 

**

 

Jerusalem – 33 AD

The angel didn't move from where he'd been standing. He hadn't moved from that same one spot since the body had been cut down and entombed, and you could have taken him for one of the rocks that surrounded Golgotha. The mourners and the curious had come and gone, the smell of death and blood hadn't yet completely left the air, and it was the place where anyone of any sense would have avoided. But Aziraphale hadn't moved, the only thing that marked him as anything else than a statue were the tears that shone on his cheeks and he kept staring up at the vacant cross.  
Crowley approached slowly, softly, keeping his demonic aura as low-key and as unassuming as possible, just in case, but it became apparent that attacking was the very last thing on the angel's mind. Had he noticed Crowley's approach, even? It didn't seem likely, and even when the demon reached out to touch his shoulder, nothing happened.  
\- Angel, come on. There's nothing left to see here.  
Still no movement. Still nothing to show that he was even noticed.  
\- Angel, please.  
\- Why?  
Aziraphale's voice was far too soft for a human to catch it. And it was only because Crowley was as non-human as possible that he could hear the words.  
\- You can't stay here, come on.  
\- Why did they do this?  
\- Because they did. Come on. You can't stay here.  
\- Why not? Someone...someone has to stay and bear witness. Someone who...someone who cares.  
\- There were Watchers all around since the Son came. You –  
\- I'm not needed, is that what you were about to say?  
\- Of course I wasn't going to say that. But you can't do anything now. So let's get you somewhere warm.  
\- I'm not cold.  
\- Humour me. 

No-one took any notice of them walking through the streets of Jerusalem. If any of the humans had, they wouldn't have seen anything save two man-shaped beings just like any other two man-shaped beings, walking into an inn and closing the door.  
The room was bare, only a candle and a small brazier in the corner to keep out the worst of the spring cold. A reed mat and netting across the small window, and a single bed, towards which Crowley nudged Aziraphale, before sitting down next to him. And he was at a total loss. What could he possibly say? The angel's aura was pure loss and sadness so profound it was heartbreaking (At least, it would have been if Crowley had admitted to actually having a heart) So instead of saying anything, he crept out of the room and came back soon after with a steaming bowl of broth.  
\- You should eat.  
\- I don't need to eat.  
\- Eat, angel. You'll feel better.  
Yes, well that wasn't the best way to bridge whatever gap they had. The temperature in the room fell abruptly as the Principality shot a look at Crowley that would terrify any demon.  
\- "Feel better"? You believe this will make me "feel better"? Are you blind and deaf to what has happened, demon? They have condemned themselves! They took Him and they killed Him, and they have the audacity to continue living as if nothing happened!  
Crowley winced as the bowl shattered in the angel's hands, hit by the force of Aziraphale's growing discontent.  
\- He came here, He asked them for nothing but to give love, forgiveness and faith, and they dare do this?! _How dare they!_

If glass had been invented at that moment, all the windows in the inn would have exploded. But it wasn't, so instead the walls cracked from the force of a small earthquake. Crowley wasn't an idiot, he knew that a bigger earthquake could come pretty easily with Aziraphale in such a state of mind. But he was so bad at words, so he did the next best thing: he slapped Aziraphale across the face without holding back.  
Several things happened at the same time: his hand screamed in pain. A red mark appeared on the angel's face. The walls stopped cracking. Aziraphale blinked – just once – and everything was once again as it was, and the bowl (and contents) were in his hand. He drank slowly, before looking up at him, eyes the colour of pain and of loss and of glorious divine retribution  
\- You...hit...me?  
\- You were going to destroy half of Jerusalem, so I thought I should.  
Crowley's voice was calm, exactly as calm as Crowley himself was not. Crowley himself was shaking like a leaf in a blast-furnace (also not invented yet) but he wasn't going to admit to it.  
\- So yes, I hit you. Because the last thing we need right now is another Gomorrah. They're idiots, all right? They're scared and looking for someone to take the blame, and they've got all that free will that we never got and doing anything with it. So you ask how they could dare do that to their Saviour? Free will, angel. Just bloody stupid free will. Now sleep. It won't be better tomorrow, but you'll be rested at least.

Aziraphale could have protested and reminded Crowley that supranatural beings didn't need sleep, that angels were ever-vigilant, but the bed was comfortable, and the stew had been nice and warm, and he didn't even notice that his eyes had closed by themselves until he woke up.

Crowley had – predictably – gone. But the shape of his body was still imprinted on the mattress next to him.

 

**

 

Lindores – 1452

The rain was pouring onto his wide-brimmed hat, and his woollen cloak hardly stopped the water from soaking the tunic underneath. Aziraphale was, to be honest, not in an amazingly good mood; once again he wondered what on earth he was doing here, instead of back in his warm house with his little collections. But he had become aware of disturbances in the north of Scotland, and such disturbances were hardly a coincidence. Even in these times where superstition was more rampant than disease, one couldn't help but feel that the stories of two-headed sheep, snakes in chicken eggs and children with black eyes were slightly exaggerated. So when the same town in this tiny region of Scotland had reported all of the above every day for a couple of weeks, it was to be assumed that something was going wrong. And it was his duty to see what was happening and if it was a demon, to banish him back to Hell. Then he could hurry up and get back to his friends and a nice warm fire.

The town itself was like all towns in that particular moment of history: dark, damp, dirty, smelly and really not a nice place to be. But with all that had happened in the recent past, he could almost describe the Earth (or at least the part of it he had inhabited during the last 150 years) as dark, damp, smelly, and not a very nice place to be. There was no use in complaining, it never solved anything anyway, so he walked up to the small, dilapidated house where most of the activity seemed to be coming from.  
He debated for a moment about knocking – it was the polite thing to do, after all – but there was definitely something off about the house. Like the very subtle way the raindrops just happened to not fall on it. That at the very least suggested something not very normal at all was at work here. So with a sigh, he knocked and came in, half-expecting to find a couple of old ladies stirring a cauldron of Earl Grey tea, but instead he found himself face to face with a snoring pile of black leather and wool that he hadn't seen since the fall of Constantinople.

\- Crowley. _Crowley_. Crowley, wake up.  
\- Gnmpgh?  
\- Crowley, what have you been doing?  
\- 'Zzzzp'le?  
\- Yes. Unless you were attempting to summon someone, in which case please wait for me to leave before you do.  
Aziraphale thought he would be irritated and annoyed, but instead he felt happy at finally seeing a face he  
_(cared about)_  
recognised in a little over 200 years.  
\- W't 'y 'd'ng 're?  
\- There's been a violent uprising of demonic activity here, so I came to see if I was needed. Is everything all right? No hell-lords bringing Dis and Pandemonium here?  
\- N'', sssss'k.  
\- My dear, would you please sober up? It's hard to have a decent conversation when one of the parties is bladdered like a pickled herring.

Well... that seemed to be efficient, because Crowley's golden eyes snapped open and he looked at Aziraphale without the slightest hint of alcohol in them.  
\- What in the name of Whoever is _that_ supposed to mean?  
\- You were drunk.  
\- Yes, I was. A new invention called whisky, would you like to try? I wasn't even involved, I just decided to savour the discovery of that half-mad priest. Humans and their inventions...  
\- Maybe another time?  
\- Oh, so you're only here to smite if smiting is required?  
\- It's only you. I think I can refrain on the smiting.  
The angel sat himself neatly on the straw mattress, taking care to make vanish the hordes of bedbugs that were there. Or might, potentially, have been there. It could have been fleas after all. Or miniature cockroaches. It wouldn't have been the strangest thing. He sat and smiled, and felt...happy...at being simply here, and now, and far from anything else. Just him and Crowley. He had been so wrapped up in the troubles of the past years that he hadn't understood just how  
_(starved)_  
slightly bored he had been.  
\- Oh Crowley, where have you been? I really thought I would have seen you at least once in the last couple of centuries.  
\- Really? What for? The wonderful weather? I slept, angel.  
\- You slept? But evil doesn't sleep.  
\- Perhaps not. But I did. It was that or hearing the screams and the cries and the begging night after night, day after day. I can still hear them, they're everywhere...

There was no need to answer anything, they both remembered what had happened. Crowley spoke softly, almost detached. He remembered the dead faces he saw all around him. The poorest who had made the hardest choices between killing their own children or seeing them starve. Those people who tried so hard to survive even if it meant eating their own dead. The raiders and the marauders who swept through the country killing, maiming, raping, and taking what they could even if it was only a bone or two.  
And on either side of the Two Sides, simply watching as humanity seemed to destroy itself one civilization at a time. 

\- I don't know how you did it, Aziraphale. I couldn't. I ran away...  
\- They needed help. I tried to give them all the help I could.  
\- Did it do anything?  
Crowley's eyes were too wide, his voice too calm. Aziraphale had never heard him speak like this and without thinking, he reached out and took the demon's hand in his. Ever so softly, ever so gently.  
\- My dear, please... I can help –  
\- No use, nothing helps. Not even the whisky, and can't even begin to tell you how much of that I've been drinking. It doesn't help, I can still see them, hear them, smell the bloody stuff! How they screamed...!  
He had wrapped himself further up in his blanket, only the tip of his nose and his hands in the open air. Being cold was really the one thing he hated above anything else – at least in this realm – and he almost hissed in pleasure as he felt his hand warm up.  
\- Oh, you're as cold as ice. You can't possibly stay here.  
\- Nowhere elsssse to go, angel.  
\- Nonsense, of course you've got somewhere else to go. Pack up your things, you're coming with me this instant. I'm not going to leave you here to freeze to death, you're going to meet a wonderful friend of mine and you're going to warm up. Gutenberg is a lovely fellow, he'll be very happy to spend evenings with you talking about his incessant discoveries.  
\- Are you inviting me to live with you?  
\- Well...  
\- Ssseriously, angel?  
\- Well... Would you like to?

Crowley didn't answer, but simply stood up and _grinned_. There were too many teeth in that grin for a split second, but Aziraphale wasn't going to be intimidated by that after all this time.  
\- By the way my dear, leave the accent behind. It doesn't suit you.

 

**

London – 1666

Night fell, and the angel didn't move from where he'd been standing. Or at least he would have stayed where he had been if Crowley hadn't been dragging him through the streets, away from the burning buildings and towards the relative safety of the river.  
It had been such a stupid mistake. Well, if it hadn't been a mistake, it was the most amazing bonfire imaginable, and now you could roast marshmallows for all of the south of England. If marshmallows had been invented. They hadn't, but that didn't stop the more cynical of the future-ex-inhabitants of the city from grilling bread and chicken instead. It made Crowley hungry, but for now, he had a shocked and very angry, slightly pudgy Principality on his arms.  
\- Come on...  
\- They burned everything! They burned everything, the savages!  
\- It was an accident, angel. Probably a candle and some hay, you know what they're like, they never really take care of anything.  
\- It's burning!  
\- Yes, I can see that.  
It was like the angel had never seen a fire before, and Crowley knew for a fact that it was certainly not the first time those imperfectly-groomed wings had felt the heat of the flames. But he was raging against them like it was the first time, like his anger was being fed by them. And the worst thing for him was that the Ineffable Plan forbade him from doing anything. He was probably feeling like his heart was being ripped out. At least he was silent now.

Crowley's house had been in London originally, but he'd found a lovely country cottage that he found worked wonders to get rich and lovely ladies and gentleman to have fun, spend a lot of money, do silly things that he could get blackmail out of, and then use the blackmail. Oh it was wonderful and he had been able to make a small fortune out of pure human cruelty and stupidity, and he exploited it really very well. It wasn't very big but it shouted to everyone who came that this was one of the many homes of a rich gentleman. The woodwork was all spirals and leaves, the upholstery was green and gilded, the walls were covered in tapestries and paintings, and a stuffed peacock was on the table, surrounded by silverware and half-eaten apples. It was decadent to the extreme, and it was in the middle of all of this that Crowley dumped the angel; on the sofa with a cushion under his head and a Chinese-style coverlet on his body, Aziraphale groaned as he opened his eyes.  
\- Crowley, what are you doing? I don't need to be babied. Ow!  
\- Try not to move, angel. Your hands took a bit of a burning, what where you trying to do?  
\- My books...my books were burning...  
\- All of London is burning, I'd reckon. And I didn't think you'd do anything quite so ridiculous as to throw yourself into a burning inferno. Were you _trying_ to get yourself disincorporated? And for a couple of mouldy books?  
\- They were perhaps mouldy, but they were mine. They were presents. From Luther, from Gutenberg, from Hadrian the Mad. I had an amazing 6th century Qur'an... They were priceless.. And now what are they? Gone up in smoke like...like...  
\- Aren't you supposed to eschew desire? Wouldst thou be a _lustful_ angel?

Crowley's grin could probably be seen from the moon. He had to admit, seeing Aziraphale look almost bashful would be worth all the fires in the world.  
\- So, you are a creature of desire after all.  
\- Crowley, I don't _desire_ books, for goodness sake. It's just a very bad shame that they've disappeared, and I hadn't finished reading them all. And some were indeed so very beautiful... People should have learned better than burning books, have they learnt nothing? I'm not saying that my humble library was anything in comparison as Alexandria's, but still...  
\- I have some here, if you want. Not as beautiful as yours, but they might be of some use? Better you have them than me, I suppose.  
\- I – I didn't know you had any...  
\- Come, let me show you.

The library was small but comfortable, lit by a couple of soft oil-lamps. Two shelves were stacked to the brim with all sorts of books and knick-knacks, and Crowley gave an almost mocking bow.  
\- My gift to you, angel.  
\- I wouldn't have imagined...  
\- Not a lot, I admit They won't take you long to read, I'd imagine. But if you want to spend some time here, please do.  
Of course he hadn't finished speaking before the angel was running his burnt and blistered fingers across spines with a look of pure happiness. He was lost, back in his little world of words, and Crowley groaned and turned away before Aziraphale could possibly guess at the look on his own face. It had nothing to do with happiness and everything to do with fingers running down spines.  
It was stupid, really. Lust, temptation and desire was everything to a demon. It was his raison-d'être, his entire existence was made of this. And he was never ashamed to wake up in a mingle of bodies, arms and legs entwined, lovely memories of a time in which baser instincts (or just instincts, after all) had been fully satisfied, and no-one had suffered anything (unless they wanted to).  
But this...this wasn't exactly the same thing. This was _love_. 

__

Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? Funny if I did the good thing and you did the bad one, eh? 

Right.  
Of course.  
Funny, definitely. Ha ha. He needed to get a grip. 

\- Look at me, being the less-than-gracious host... Can I get you anything, angel?  
\- Pardon me?  
\- Tea? Warm wine to chase away the cold? Although it doesn't look all that cold outside, outside. What with the flames and all.  
\- Dear, really...  
Aziraphale closed his book and smiled. And that smile was always so fond and so warm and _oh for buggery's sake stop smiling._  
\- If you have cocoa...?  
\- Do you know how much that costs? Do you really think I'd have something like that in this house? Do you take me for a prince?  
\- You have a pineapple on the table, my dear. And you shouldn't, because they haven't even been imported yet.  
\- You have a point. So a cup of hot cocoa for my angel, I'll be right back.

The kitchen was cool and silent, the only noise the pipes dripping and the sound of his own heart beating. It was so loud he was amazed that the skies hadn't already parted to announce his great sin of loving – _loving_ , for fuck's sake – his sworn angelic enemy. It was ridiculous, he was a demon. Aziraphale was an angel. Demon, angel. Angel, demon. Things like that weren't supposed to happen. Better he ignore it than draw attention to it.  
He would much prefer to suffer in silence than to risk the angel's wrath. 

**

Wyoming – 1870

The sun was hot and the only noise was the rustling in the trees and the singing of the river. Crowley stretched out with a satisfied smile, taking up all the space on the small, sun-baked rock, his eyes closed, his wings spread out wide. This was – he couldn't lie – nice. Really very nice, actually. He didn't remember another time quite like this since...  
\- Since Eden, I believe.  
\- Reading mindsssss, now Zira?  
\- Of course not, dear. I don't think so, anyway. But you have a tendency to speak when you dream, or hadn't you noticed?  
\- Hmmm... 'Sssss nice here... Ssssunny...  
\- Indeed. I do think it's quite nice myself. It does remind me of certain afternoons...or perhaps not, since afternoons hadn't really been imagined yet, but it is pleasant to be able to unwind in peace from time to time. Things are getting really too fast. Interesting, but fast. Just the other day I realised that I hadn't taken their new train yet. A train, isn't it amazing what their minds come up with?  
\- Jussssst wait until Up-There or Down-There get word. They'll be fighting to be the firsssst to messssss things up, like they alwayssss do.

Crowley sat up and reached out for the object at his right. He'd worn his sunglasses since James Ayscough had invented them, and he'd almost forgotten how it was to not have those blue-tinted lenses on his eyes. They hid his golden eyes really quite well and he loved them. It was just a shame that he'd not had them when the townspeople had screamed for his blood and tried to hang him...  
\- Not that any of Them need to mess things up, humans are perfectly capable of doing that all by themselves.  
\- I know it can be hard, my dear.  
\- "Hard"? That doesn't even begin to start to describe the bloody ridiculous shitpile they do. And when you try to help them, they just want to kill you. I mean, how stupid is that?!  
\- You were encouraging them to do some rather questionable things.  
\- Yes, drink more alcohol and stop being stupid, not hang people for being another colour! Even Down-There doesn't do that! We should be learning from them, they don't need our help...

His voice had taken on a horribly bitter note, and he loved that he didn't need to fear it. It was only Aziraphale after all, they had no secrets for each-other (well, there was a nagging little thing, a tiny little detail, something about wanting hands and mouths pressed together, but that was a detail and it really wasn't important and certainly not a burning desire). They were the only of their respective kinds on permanent "holiday" on Earth, a chubby, fluffy, nagging Principality and a minor demon that might not have been demonic enough, so of course they'd bonded through their love of music and chocolate. Crowley had to wonder at the short-sightedness of Heaven and Hell. Had no-one _really_ figured out that this was a possibility? He started to chuckle...and that chuckle turned into a nearly squeaky sigh.  
Aziraphale was softly brushing his fingers through pearly feathers, humming under his breath. Since when had he been right there, Crowley had no idea. The bloody angel could be swift and silent when he wanted to...  
\- Angel, what –  
\- You're tense.  
Crowley nearly said “Yes, I'm tense because you're touching my wings and it's really not something that I'm used to but please don't stop please don't stop!!” and instead managed to keep his brain (and his anatomy) in check and nodded.  
\- Bad couple of years...  
\- Well, you're perfectly safe here. No demon can come here, after all. Well, except you, of course.  
\- And what about the humans?  
Crowley was actually quite proud of how his voice wasn't quavering or trembling, or even lapsing back into his sibilant snaky lisp; he was even prouder of how he wasn't a liquid mess on the ground, still having his wings carefully stroked. The angel had to know how sensitive wings were, he had a pair himself, after all. He had to know how fucking _kinky_ this was. And even though angels weren't the most lustful of creatures – they were somewhat the exact polar opposite – and Aziraphale was probably even less interested in the whole sexual side of life than the rest of them, Crowley would have sworn on whatever that he knew perfectly what he was doing. But that would mean things that he wasn't quite certain that he wanted to think too long about....

With a sound like ripped silk and newborn innocence, Aziraphale unfurled his own wings and Crowley didn't dare move in case those fingers removed themselves from his feathers.  
\- Zira...?  
\- It's been a long time since I let them see the sunlight. Almost as if I'd half-forgotten they were there. Isn't that strange?  
\- Well, do you use them?  
\- I can't really say I do.  
\- There you go. It's like anything, really: you don't use it, you forget how to.  
Oh well there went a perfectly badly-timed innuendo. Even Aziraphale couldn't possibly let that one sail over his head, and Crowley cringed while waiting for the obvious retreat and the less-than-soft rebuttal that would follow.  
But it didn't follow. Aziraphale gave a little laugh and dug his hands deeper into the mass of feathers in front of him, raking out the dead ones mercilessly.  
\- I'm quite sure I wouldn't be totally capable of forgetting that sort of thing. But I should perhaps let them out more often, and perhaps next time, you could return the favour?  
\- ….of course, angel...

 

**

London, Saturday evening of the Failed Apocalypse.

The car ride had been uneventful and everything was peaceful. They hadn't spoken much, just listened to Handel's Water Music as they drove back towards London. They hadn't spoken much since they'd arrived at the restaurant, simply sitting down at their usual table in the corner and waiting for the food to appear. So much had happened, and everything had changed and nothing had changed, and they were idly picking at the food that had appeared on their plates.  
They were silent, but it was a companionable silence, one that was born from too much world-defying stuff happening in just about seven days. After everything that had happened, it was fine to just enjoy the silence.  
But the silence really couldn't really carry on forever, and Aziraphale poked his chocolate cake with a tiny sigh.  
\- So, my dear... What will you do now?  
\- Hmm? What do you mean?  
\- Well...after what happened...  
Crowley sighed and rubbed his eyes behind his sunglasses. He really didn't want to think about it, to be honest, but they had to face the future.  
\- They haven't come to drag me away. Yet. You?  
\- Same, to be honest. I haven't received summons from the Choir yet. Although I'm quite certain that with the aborted apocalypse, there's a lot of things to wrap up and organise. Maybe they won't think about us.  
\- You wish...  
Crowley glumly manifested a new bottle of wine and filled their glasses up. They weren't trying to get drunk, even if they might have wanted to, because this wasn't going to be easier with alcohol. On the contrary.  
\- They won't forget about us, trust me. Metatron and Beelzebub saw us, angel. They saw us and then you went running your mouth and opposing the whole sodding plan. They won't forget about us. And then what? We'll be royally fucked.  
\- My dear –  
\- No use pretending, angel. What chance do we have? We spoke up against the Apocalypse! We raised arms against Them!  
\- We couldn't just let things happen.  
\- I know that!  
\- We couldn't let things happen, it was just...wrong. We had to speak up, even if Adam obviously didn't need our help.  
\- He didn't need our help for anything, really. We could have just let him do things all by himself, not interfered with anything, and it probably still would have turned out as it did. We really turned out to be useless.  
\- I know.  
\- And we have no idea for how long we'll be left alone. So I guess we just have to enjoy what we have while we have it.  
Aziraphale felt a twinge as he looked at Crowley's face. The demon was playing with his glass, letting his fingers run across the top, golden eyes lost in the wine. He looked so blue, so worried. Even their meetings after the Fourteenth Century, when trauma and stress had taken its toll on them, he hadn't seemed quite so...down. Traumatised and disgusted with everything, but not as worried. He let out a breath – so quiet that not a single soul could have heard it – and put his hand on Crowley's.  
\- I intend to, my dear.

Never had those eyes widened so much, never had Crowley looked  
_(so beautiful dear Lord so beautiful)_  
quite so surprised at a simple gesture. And Aziraphale smiled, timidly all the same, no matter how certain he was.  
\- When we left Tadfield, you said something.  
\- I said a lot of stupid things, I know. My mouth just won't learn to shut itself.  
\- No, my dear. You said “I'll drive us back to London”. But I don't think that was really what you meant to say, was it?  
\- ...sorry...? You've lost me.  
\- Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but...you could just as well have said “I'll drive us home”... Couldn't you?  
\- Angel – Zira – I...  
\- I'm sorry...maybe I shouldn't say anything, this is all rather unusual, but the fact remains that –

If he had wanted to say anything else, he didn't have the chance. Crowley had reached out across the table, sending plates and chocolate cake crashing onto the floor; some part of his brain was still working and he flicked them into non-existence with a thought, but as soon as his lips had come to meet the angel's, there was no thought left except that he really couldn't have waited for another Apocalypse to do this.  
Aziraphale's lips were exactly like he'd always imagined them: warm, soft, slightly pouty and tasting of chocolate and fireworks and he fucking ached to kiss him again and again. Somewhere he'd imagined that kissing him would start off a chain reaction leading to the destruction of the universe (or something of that sort) but nothing happened. Except that he was kissing the – his – angel, and nothing was happening. The end of the world hadn't arrived, no flames or sulphur. Probably only tens of eyes staring at them, but he really didn't care about that.  
And then he did that _thing_ with his tongue and grinned as he felt Aziraphale tense and shudder.  
\- We should leave, what do you think?  
\- ...Yes...we should...um... Yes, good idea.  
\- Your place or mine?  
\- Dear, my flat is still wet ash...  
\- Good point. My place then.

Crowley's flat was still just as cold and impersonal and empty as it had ever been. And he knew from experience that the leather sofa was very impractical and uncomfortable for anything except looking at it. There was a reason that he was more often drinking and talking in Aziraphale's back-room than inviting him here. In fact...  
\- You've never been here before, have you...?  
\- No, I believe this is the first time, my dear.  
The angel was breathless and his hand wrapped itself harder around Crowley's arm. It was such a welcome touch; even if they'd held arms as the Arrangement their relationship had evolved, it wasn't the same now. How, this touch meant something really different.  
\- Well, first times are always fun, aren't they?  
\- Do try and put even _more_ innuendo in your words, just in case.  
With a grin, Crowley locked the door and pushed Aziraphale into the hallway.  
\- How's this for innuendo?  
\- Not as effective as the first time. It's really quite nice, although I would prefer you to stop talking and just kiss me.

Crowley obeyed with a smile. And the nightingale in Berkeley Square sang just a little bit longer.


End file.
